


The Sweet Spot

by vixalicious



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-11
Updated: 2008-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixalicious/pseuds/vixalicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Responsibility" should be Spencer Smith's middle name (except it's James). After all, not many people would sacrifice their lives to run the family bakery and raise their twin sisters. But now the girls are grown, and Spencer has to learn to put his own needs first! And Brendon, the Sweet Spot's newest regular, might just be what Spencer's looking for. But will Brendon's past get in the way of their present?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweet Spot

**Author's Note:**

> Completely unbeta'd - if I missed something glaring, let me know. Also, contains chats and texts that are purposefully misspelled and might make your eyes bleed if that sort of thing bothers you. In other news, I've aged them up; this isn't future fic, it's present day but they're just older. Also, names of family members have been changed because they didn't sign up to be famous on the internet.
> 
> Originally posted on LJ. Written for a harlequin_bands prompt.
> 
> PLEASE DO NOT: repost this story anywhere (links are fine, recs are fantastic, reposting is bad), mention it on any non-fandom site such as (but not limited to) Goodreads, or read/share any excerpt from it in any public forum (radio, television, convention, etc) without the express written permission from the author. Thank you!

~*~

  
  
"Time to make the donuts!"   
  
Spencer rolls his eyes at Travis, and if he wasn't up to his elbows in flour, he'd reach over and smack him. "It is far, far too early to be making jokes like that. Plus it stopped being funny the four-hundredth time you said it, which was at least two years ago."   
  
"Nope," Travis grins unrepentantly as he ties on an apron. "Still funny, boss."   
  
  
The word 'boss' still makes Spencer start, and he has to stop himself from looking behind him to see if his dad is standing there. He isn't, of course. Hasn't been for nearly ten years now, though it doesn't seem like it could have been that long ago since the plane crash that had orphaned him and his baby sisters. The shop still looks almost the same as it did then, on the day his parents left it in his care with admonitions to look after both the store and the twins. They were headed to San Francisco for a work conference, one of those small-business seminars. They never made it home, but Spencer can't help but look after both like they might walk back in tomorrow.   
  
He works quietly next to Travis for the next two hours as they prepare the day's goods, and the air is thick with the smell of baking croissants, cinnamon rolls, and his mother's special recipe banana-nut muffins. Travis chatters on about the party he's going to on Saturday, about the project he's working on for his classes at UNLV, and Spencer half-listens, half-works on this week's supply order in his mind as they go through the familiar morning routine.   
  
At half past five, he leaves Travis to finish up and heads into the cramped office crammed between the kitchen and the front. If he works at it, he might be able to break away by two and take a nap before he goes to pick the girls up from the airport. He tries really hard not to think about how pathetic it is for a twenty-nine year old man to be planning an afternoon nap, and instead focuses on the girls.    
  
It's their first weekend home from college, and he can't contain his excitement to see them. They've been gone for almost two months now, and as much as he's proud of the smart, capable women his sisters are becoming, he can't help but wish they'd chosen a school closer to home. Brown's a great school, but Rhode Island is a long way from Las Vegas, and while Tosh emails him all the time, it takes a near Act of Congress to get her or Trish on the phone. He's down to facebook-stalking his own sisters, and his goal for the week they'll be home for Thanksgiving is to find out who the hell has Trish's relationship status set on 'it's complicated.'   
  
He can't do anything til they get here, though, so he does what he does every morning: he flips on the lights, slides open the bakery cases, and with Travis's help, everything is ready to go on time. At six am, he turns the sign on the door, and The Sweet Spot is officially open for business.   
  


~*~

 

"My God, I swear they've grown." Ryan flops down on the couch in Spencer's living room, sprawling awkwardly. The glass of wine he's holding almost falls victim to his drama, but at the last second Keltie swoops in and saves it from tipping on to Spencer's mom's prized Persian rug. Spencer's always liked Keltie, she's good people. Even if she married his batshit-crazy best friend.

Spencer tries not to yawn - he never did get that nap, he'd had to re-do the schedule for next week at the last second so one of his employees could go to Laughlin to take care of a sick grandmother. He'd liked to have been upset about it, but spending a week in Laughlin is punishment enough for anyone. "They haven't grown, Gramps. They're almost nineteen. Perhaps you're just shrinking in your old age."  
  
"Oh, God, here we go," Keltie groans.  
  
Ryan jackknifes himself up to a sitting position. "Thirty is not old! Thirty is the new twenty!"   
  
"Funny how the only people who ever say that are people who aren't in their twenties anymore," Spencer baits his best friend with a smirk and an air of smugness that comes from being the youngest person in the room. He's a year and two days younger than Ryan, and he has every intention of torturing Ryan with this every day between now and next August when Spencer turns thirty himself. Revenge is a cold bitch, and so is Spencer - this is totally payback for the year that Ryan kept saying things like 'There's this fantastic new club, everyone is going, oh  _wait_ , you can't get in.'  
  
The girls have gone out to catch up with their friends from high school, or they'd be right there with him, saying things like "When you were born, had they figured out the earth was round yet?" and "What was it like when the dinosaurs roamed the earth, Ryan? Did it make it hard for you to get to school?" They're awesome, they're like Spencer's bitchy little wingmen, and he's so glad they're back home, even it's just for a week.  
  
Unfortunately, they're just as likely to say the same things to him, so he's kind of glad they're not around when Ryan retaliates with, "I may be old, but at least I'm getting laid once in a while, unlike  _some_  people I could name."  
  
"Hey!" Spencer and Keltie object simultaneously.  
  
"I get laid!" Spencer defends.  
  
"Excuse me?" Keltie scoffs, crossing her arms and scooting an inch away from her husband.  
  
Ryan rolls his eyes, but he reaches out to tug her back closer. "Sorry, we make love, a choir of angels sing, et cetera..."  
  
"Oh, please, I fuck you within an inch of your life," Keltie smacks him across the chest. "On a  _regular basis_ . 'Once in a while,' my ass."  
  
"We could do it that way once in a while, sure," Ryan agrees solemnly, but his eyes are sparkling. Keltie tries to look outraged but the giggling doesn't help her case. He turns his attention back to Spencer with a level look. "Speaking of anal sex, we were talking about you not having any."  
  
Keltie laughs outright at that, and Spencer chucks a coaster at her. She bats it away with practiced ease. "Yeah, Spencer. We're kind of worried that your ass virginity may have grown back."  
  
"My- my WHAT?" Spencer turns seven shades of red and splutters for a full minute. Ryan laughs so hard he actually rolls off the couch, and he is officially fired as Spencer's best friend. "It doesn't work that way, you assholes." At least, he hopes not. "And it hasn't been  _that_  long."  
  
"Six months since you hooked up with that one guy at that place downtown," Ryan says from the floor. "And almost a year before that."  
  
"And you haven't  _been_  with anyone since I've known you, not seriously." Keltie adds, and she's got her worried face on now.   
  
"It hasn't been all that long," Spencer argues weakly as he tries to think back. "I've been busy, what with the store and the girls and-"  
  
"And the girls are grown now," Ryan says gently. "I know, it was hard on you. I wish... I wish I'd known how to be more help back then."  
  
"You helped." Spencer shrugs the regrets away. They'd been so young, and at twenty Ryan had been dealing with his own issues, his own losses. Spencer doesn't begrudge him having to do his own growing up.   
  
"But the girls are grown now," Keltie repeats, one hand wrapping around the nape of Ryan's neck. "And you've got the youngest case of empty nest syndrome on record. You rattle around in this house, you don't go out on the weekends."  
  
"I have a job that starts when most people are coming home from the clubs." Spencer can hear the defensiveness in his own voice and he tries to dial it back a notch. "Besides, it makes me feel ancient. The last time I went out, I ran into one of the twins' friends from school. I remember this guy when he was in the seventh grade. He used to come to the girls' parties. Now he can get into clubs. And  _he hit on me_ . I felt dirty for days."  
  
"Well, at least," Keltie grins slowly, and that never bodes well for anyone. "You could be his  _sugar_  daddy."  
  
Spencer and Ryan both groan, and Ryan grabs a pillow off the couch and bats it at her as punishment. She wrests it away and bops him with it once on top of the head. "Seriously though. You need to get out more. Get a hobby that doesn't involve your sisters or baking soda. Ryan and I could set you up with-"  
  
"Absolutely not! No set ups, never again. Just because you know two gay people does not mean those two gay people should meet."  
  
"Rick was a sweetheart-"  
  
"Rick was an obsessive-compulsive control freak with four dogs and a coke habit. I thought he was going to snort me whole before he figured out it was flour on my hands and not blow."  
  
"Okay, okay," Keltie acknowledges. "Not my finest match ever. But still, you've got to quit hiding behind your job and get out there again."  
  
"Before it's too late," Ryan adds. "Before you turn into the world's first gay spinster."  
  
And now it's Spencer's turn to beat Ryan with a pillow.  
  


~*~

  
It's ten minutes past six, and Spencer's only just now sliding the last tray of eclairs into the display case when the front door chimes with their first customer of the day. Saturdays are slow, everyone sleeping in, although they do get the occasional 'we've been up all night, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas' early morning drunks. Spencer really hopes this isn't one of those - he started his day by oversleeping, having to run for it to get to work on time, all the while worrying about the girls and how their flight back to Providence was. They still haven't called or texted, and he's trying not to worry, trying and failing. He could really use a day where his customers aren't assholes, but he's been around long enough to know life doesn't actually work like that.  
  
This guy, for example, looks like a prime example of an asshole. He looks like all the scene kids that Ryan, and by proxy Spencer, used to hang out with back in high school, back when they had a band, back before Spencer had to give up teenage angst to be a responsible adult. The guy is wearing sunglasses inside, giant ugly ones with white frames that Spencer can recognize from twenty feet away as Gucci. His skinny girl's jeans are rumpled and stained, held low on his hips by a studded leather belt and a prayer, and his hair is rucked up like he either spent all night partying or fucking or both.   
  
Spencer just hopes he's not still drunk. He can deal with the attitude, but the last time they got drunk kids in, they ate two donuts and then proceeded to barf in one of the booths. Spencer still has nightmares about cleaning that up. He plasters a completely fake smile on his face and greets his customer cordially. "Good morning, welcome to The Sweet Spot. What can I get for you?"  
  
The guy's eyebrows do this weird waggling thing, like he's coming up with an appropriately lewd response to that, and Spencer sighs internally.  _Yep, asshole,_  he thinks, and waits to hear what the guy comes up with. He's shot down cuter drunks than this guy, although his ever-honest inner monologue makes him admit not by much. He really is hot, which only points further to his being a complete ass.  
  
"Whatever you call your largest latte," is all the guy says though, as he bounces on his toes, his head angling down to take in the contents of the display. "You guys make all this here?"  
  
"That'd be a large - we're not much on pretending to speak Italian here - and yes," Spencer relaxes just a notch, because the guy doesn't seem to be intoxicated. "All fresh, every day."  
  
"That's so awesome," the guy says, and he seems genuinely excited.   
  
"Says the guy who didn't start his morning slaving over a hot stove." And that's a little snarkier than Spencer would normally be with a customer, but he's over-tired and worried, and thrown off-kilter by the fact that he can't get a read on this guy. Assholes don't usually tap out the rhythm to Silverchair - on beat - along with the store's stereo system at six am; nice guys don't usually walk around with designer jeans and hair styled by someone else's libido.  
  
"Says the guy who's gratefully going to reap the benefits of someone else slaving over said stove," The guy just grins at him, all bright white teeth and full-lipped, and Spencer finds himself starting to smile back grudgingly. It catches him by surprise, so he frowns and goes to make the latte.   
  
By the time he turns back around, the guy is kneeling in front of the case, smudging Spencer's glass with one hand and clutching his sunglasses in the other. He looks like he may have fallen in love with processed sugar, and Spencer wonders for a second what  _else_  he's going to have to clean off the case.  
  
The guy just looks up, though, and smiles again. His eyes are brown and bright, kind of tired looking but that's the norm at this hour, either up too late or too early. He gives Spencer a solemn look. "I need help- Sorry, what's your name?"  
  
"Spencer."  
  
"Spencer, that's an awesome name. I'm Brendon." And he looks a little self-conscious as he says it, but he shrugs it away so quick that Spencer decides he must have been imagining it. "Spencer, I need your help. Life or death matter here, seriously."  
  
Spencer raises an eyebrow in response, and Brendon nods like that was assent. "It's a question of vital importance: the coffeecake or the banana ginger muffin?"  
  
Spencer mulls it over, as Brendon gives him a hopeful look. "Muffin. Cream cheese icing."  
  
Brendon beams at him, and seriously, that kind of gorgeous ought to be illegal this early in the morning. "I knew you wouldn't lead me astray."  
  


~*~

  
The bell over the door rings, and Spencer forces himself not to turn, not to look to see if it's Brendon.   
  
Just because Brendon's come in every day for the last three weeks, usually after ten, after the breakfast rush, when they're down to college kids on laptops slowly sipping coffees they can't really afford and Spencer can take a break, can pretend to clean the tables off while they have conversations about things like Elvis impersonators and the lost art of hackey sack. Just because he's done that, and just because it's nearly noon and there's been no sign of him, Spencer's not worried. He's not missing Brendon, he's just  _concerned_  about one of his customers.  
  
He lasts fifteen seconds before he looks up.  
  
It's not Brendon.  
  
Spencer internally rolls his eyes at himself as he serves the customer, because really. Grown man. Happiness not dependent on seeing a customer,  _a customer_ , who he's known for less than a month.   
  
It's just. It's just Brendon's always got this edge of sunnyness to him when he comes in, not like everything's always great for him, but like he always hopes it will be.   
  
Sometimes he comes in with his friend Jon or this giant guy named Zack, who looks like he could actually kill people but is actually pretty cool, and he's just as sweet and spazzy and random when his friends are there. But mostly he's alone and he always comes in when business is slowing down. Spencer glares at the coffee stain on the table top he's scrubbing, because it looks like maybe Brendon isn't coming today and Spencer misses him and if he doesn't come in, Spencer may never figure out if Brendon's flirting with him or not.  
  
He's maybe out of practice at this whole thing. He sighs, and scrubs harder. He hates it when Ryan's right.  
  
"Hey, Spence."  
  
Spencer starts, his head jerking up. Brendon's standing there, looking disheveled and still a little sleepy, thumbs in the pockets of too-tight jeans, square-rimmed red glasses perched on his nose and a hellacious case of bed-head. He grins sheepishly. "I overslept. I am, as we speak, late for work." He rocks forward on his toes just a bit. "But I didn't want to start the day without you. Or, er... your coffee, I mean."  
  
He's blushing just a bit, as he grins, and Spencer thinks 'flirting, definitely probably flirting, right?' but just grins back and says, "I knew you just wanted me for my lattes."  
  
Brendon laughs, then looks up at Spencer coyly. "Oh, not  _just_ ."  
  
Definitely flirting.  
  


~*~

  
"He could be a spy!"  
  
"Ryan, he's not a spy." Spencer laughs as he chucks another load of laundry into the dryer.  
  
"He totally could be- BASTARD! Sorry, some asshole just cut me off."  
  
"An asshole cut you off on the Fifteen, color me shocked," Spencer rolls his eyes and gets back to the subject at hand. "Ryan, yesterday he tripped over his own shoelaces and knocked over a canister of cinnamon. I'm pretty willing to bet that Brendon is not a secret agent."   
  
"Industrial espionage - he's trying to sabotage you!" Ryan insists.  
  
"Whose industrial espionage? It's not like we're exactly cutting into Starbucks profits or anything."  
  
"Okay, then. If he's not a spy, or married, or a jerk, then why haven't I, your best friend in the whole wide world, your  _blood brother_ , why haven't I got to meet him yet?"  
  
"Um, well. Let's see, setting aside the fact that you are a total drama queen," Spencer snarks as he slams the dryer door shut. "There is the small fact that we aren't actually dating."  
  
"So?" Ryan seems blithely unconcerned by this small fact, and Spencer can almost see the accompanying hand gesture waving that worry away through the phone line. "I still have vetting rights. You like him, you talk about him all the time, you're  _going_  to ask him out, once you actually get the nerve up to do it. And you totally met Keltie before I asked her out."  
  
"Because she was the girls' ballet teacher, not because of some epic best friends thing," Spencer argues.   
  
  
"Still!"  
  
"Ugh, call me back when you've regained reason," Spencer groans, snapping the phone shut and cutting Ryan off mid-huff. He addresses the empty room. "So in a decade or so."  
  
He looks around the room for a second. The laundry's going, the floors are sparkling, and yesterday he even cleaned the grout in the shower. He wonders if maybe he should get a dog. His phone trills, and he flips it back open to read the text Ryan's sent him.   
  
'u r an ass. tlk to you in 2018? or when u gro balls and ask hiim out. Kel wants 2 dbl date.'  
  


~*~

  
Two nights later, Spencer's sitting in his office sorting through stacks of paperwork, figuring out schedules and purchasing, balancing long columns of numbers on his computer, and generally wishing he could be doing anything else on a Tuesday night. Especially when he has to be back here for work in less than eight hours.   
  
The tapping takes him by surprise, and for a second he thinks he's hearing things. But no, it's definitely there, louder this time, someone knocking on the front glass. He gets up, trying not to think about the burglaries and home invasions they show every night on the local news. This is his store, though, and if someone's trying to break in, they'll have to come through him first. He grabs the first quasi-weapon-like thing he can get his hands on and heads out front.  
  
Brendon's standing pressed against the glass, one hand cupped around his eyes as he peers inside. He's shivering just a little in the December desert night, but when he sees Spencer, he beams and starts waving like a lunatic.  
  
Spencer disables the alarm and unlocks the front door, and Brendon comes tumbling inside. "Thanks! I saw the light on and it isn't usually, so I was worried something was wrong so I thought I should check it out. Jeez! I forgot how cool nighttime gets in Vegas this time of year, I should have worn a hoodie or something. Is that a stapler?"  
  
"It's. I. Yeah," Spencer rubs one hand over the nape of his neck sheepishly. "I sort of thought you were breaking in."  
  
"Oh shit!" Brendon looks horrified. "Dude, I probably scared the shit out of you, I am so sorry! Did you call the cops?"  
  
"No, I just-" Spencer stops when Brendon smacks him hard on the arm.  
  
"Are you crazy? You thought I was a robber and you were going to what, staple me into submission?" Brendon's frown is just as fierce as his smile, and Spencer desperately tries not to think it's cute when Brendon puts his hands on his hips as he continues his tirade. "You could have been hurt or worse, Spencer! Next time, call the police!"  
  
"Okay," Spencer agrees solemnly as he relocks the door. "Next time you bang on my glass, I'll call the cops."  
  
Brendon tries not to smile, but he loses the battle. "So not what I meant. Whatever. Loser."  
  
"Ah, I'm wounded," Spencer puts one hand to his chest, faking a hit. "The guy with nothing better to do than wander around a strip mall parking lot at-" He breaks off, checking the clock on the wall. "Ten-thirty at night thinks  _I'm_  a loser. Life as I know it is over."  
  
"Smartass."   
  
Brendon's laughing though, so Spencer's counting it as a win. He waves toward his lighted office with the stapler. "Come on, come back to the office and keep me company. Unless you were really headed somewhere?"  
  
"Nah, we were just- I'm on my dinner break." Brendon follows behind Spencer, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I totally have time to hang out."  
  
Brendon's never said what he does, and Spencer hasn't asked. Obviously it's not a nine-to-five gig, but this is Vegas and that could mean anything from rent boy to tech support. It's a twenty-four/seven kind of town. Spencer wonders if he should ask, but first things first. "Have you eaten then? We always have day-old something around here."  
  
"I never say no to baked goods."  
  
"Words to live by," Spencer grins. He waves Brendon toward the other chair in his office. "Make yourself at home, I'll be right back."  
  
Spencer's digging in the walk-in, seeing what's easy to get to, when he hears Brendon call out to him. He ducks his head back out of the refrigerator and yells back. "Yeah, what?"  
  
"Who's Trish?"  
  
Spencer frowns because, hello, random. He shouts back, "My sister. Why? You want chocolate cake or carrot cake?"  
  
"Chocolate!" Brendon's reply is cheery. "And she's IM'ing you on facebook."  
  
"Oh, shit! Um," Spencer juggles the two cakes, trying to sort himself out. He's been trying to talk to Trish all week, to finalize their Christmas vacation plans, but their schedules have been shit. Of course she'd ping him now, when he's trying to flirt with a cute boy. "Can you tell her I'll be right there? I hate to ask-"  
  
"No, no worries, I've got it!"  
  
Brendon's laughing softly when Spencer walks back in, carrying the plates of cake. He's sitting behind Spencer's desk typing, so Spencer takes the other chair and waits for him to finish.   
  
"Your sister's funny."  
  
"Yeah, she's a special snowflake." The words are mocking, but the tone gives him away every time. He loves his family, and he's so proud of the girls.  
  
The computer beeps again, and Spencer leans forward curiously. "What's she got to say tonight?"  
  
Brendon flips the screen to where they can both see it, and Spencer starts reading through the chat log.  
  
trish: hi spence!!  
spencer: hey this is bden. spence'll be right back, eh's getting me cake.  
trish: oookay. hi bden. i'm spence's sis  
spencer: yeah, he said. nice to meet you!   
trish: why's he feeding you cake?  
spencer: bcuz i didn't break into the store  
trish: ???  
spencer: long story. u'll have to ask him  
trish: k.  
spencer: how's school?  
trish: ok. boring. how do you know spencer?  
spencer: i came in for coffee one day and decided to stay  
trish: oh. oh you're brendan! brenden?  
spencer: brendon. guilty as charged! how did u know?  
trish: ryan said. well, never mind. he mentions you sometimes  
spencer: awesome :D at least i hope so - good mentions me or god this jerk needs to disappear mentions me?  
  
"I don't think you're a jerk," Spencer says softly. "I like it when you come around."  
  
"Good," Brendon smiles, and Spencer grins back at him for a moment, like the giant goofball he is, before he goes back to reading.  
  
spencer: wait no don't answer.   
spencer: if he thinks i'm a jerk, it will make me cry into my cake. soggy cake = bad.  
trish: that's my bro. his cupcakes bring all the boys to the yard  
spencer: lol true. so what collegy type things are you up to tonight?  
trish: writing a paper and waiting for my bf to call  
  
"Boyfriend? I knew it!" Spencer smacks one hand on the desk, and Brendon gives him a bemused look. "I've been trying to get her to crack on this for weeks! Ask her who it is, find out his name. And how old he is. Ooo, and where he lives!"  
  
"And his social security number?" Brendon laughs, but he starts typing again.  
  
spencer: ur bro is having kittens. who is bf?  
trish: oh shit! tell him it's no one.  
spencer: u are waiting for no one to call u? i dont buy it.  
trish: do you have brothers?  
spencer: y. 2. both older.  
trish: then you know what it's like  
spencer: protective?  
trish: no one expects the spanish inquisition; everyone expects the spencer inquisition  
  
"I'm not that bad!" Spencer defends, but he's guessing that Brendon doesn't buy it judging by the way he's giggling. "You're so mean."  
  
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger!"  
  
"Mean. Both of you." Spencer tries to keep a straight face, but he mostly fails.  
  
spencer: he sez ur mean  
trish: yeah, well, get him to tell you about the time he embarrassed me in front of my prom date  
trish: then see who's mean  
trish: ooo, tell him i'm dating a tattooed biker with three kids and a prince albert  
spencer: ...  
spencer: i think he just swallowed his tongue  
trish: no wait, an octogenarian politician. he's a barrel of fun as long as we remember to bring the oxygen tank  
spencer: he's turning multiple shades of pink. it's surprisingly hot on him  
trish: ew, ew, brother! *scrubs brain*  
trish: tell him i was jk  
trish: and i will tell him when i'm ready not when he is  
  
Spencer makes a frowny face at the screen, and gestures to Brendon to let him at the keyboard. Brendon slides it over without argument, and turns to his cake.  
  
spencer: hey, this is spence. stop being a grown up, it freaks me out.  
spencer: i'll lay off  
trish: wouldn't be spencer if you didn't worry. i'm ok. tosh has my back  
trish: at least until she runs off to france  
trish: shit, don't tell her i told you that  
trish: there is no france. france does not exist.   
trish: these aren't the droids you're looking for.  
  
Spencer rolls his eyes, and types a quick 'you're a moron, I love you, I'm going now' back at her and closes out of the screen.  
  
"So you guys are close?" Brendon says around a mouthful of moist chocolate cake.   
  
"Yeah, we-" Spencer breaks off for a second, taking up his own fork and toying with his cake. Ten years, he thinks it ought to get easier to tell people; this may be why he doesn't let that many new people into his life. He hates lending credence to any of Ryan's theories, though. "Our parents died when the twins were really young, plane crash... So I moved back home and. Well, you know." He waves the whole thing off. "So yeah, close. I'm still trying to get used to the idea that they're all the way across the country."  
  
"You raised them?" Brendon looks a little taken aback when Spencer nods. "That's amazing! You can't have been very old yourself."  
  
"Nineteen," Spencer shrugs it off. He knows he isn't a saint, never has been. "It's not... it's just what you do. It's family."  
  
"It is special, Spencer. Not everybody..." Brendon frowns for a moment, and he looks down at the cake with a bit more interest than in warrants. "When I was seventeen, my parents kicked me out. Because... well, let's say I wasn't living up to their expectations of the good little Mormon boy." He looks up, with the most serious look Spencer's ever seen on Brendon's face. "So you know, it's not what everyone does."  
  
He's drumming his thumb against the desktop, and Spencer reaches across without thinking and takes his hand. He feels kind of silly after he's done it, but Brendon just looks up and smiles at him. Smiles at him with sympathy, not pity, and laces their fingers together.  
  
"I'm sorry your parents died."  
  
"I'm sorry yours sucked," Spencer smiles tentatively, and breathes a sigh of relief when Brendon returns it full-fledged.  
  
They fall silent for a moment, focusing on their desserts, but it isn't as awkward as it could be. Still, Spencer's relieved when Brendon starts talking again, and the conversation turns to other topics, lighter things. They finish their cake, and Spencer heads to pile the dishes into the dishwasher, Brendon trailing behind him, regaling him with a story about the first time he got stoned. "-so there we were on the roof of this hotel in Cincinnati, and suddenly Jon needs White Castle. Like  _needs_ , won't shut up about it, and who am I to say no, right? So we go to head back downstairs and the door is locked. Jon's tugging and tugging, but it's not budging, and then of course it starts pouring down rain, so he calls Zack to come get us. So ten minutes later, Zack calls back all like, 'very fucking funny, where are you guys?' and Jon's all 'dude. roof.' And Zack starts to get pissed, because he's on the roof and we aren't there. It took us a solid ten minutes to convince him we weren't screwing with him and for us all to figure out that Jon and I had accidentally gone back to the  _wrong hotel_ ."  
  
"Oh, shit!" Spencer grins. "Stoner."  
  
"No, we weren't even stoned then, we're just that fucking special! In our defense, all hotels start to blend after a while."  
  
"What do you do that you're at so many hotels?" Spencer asks, leaning back against the counter, because Brendon's never really mentioned what he does, but obviously it has something to do with Jon and Zack, and keeps him well enough to buy five-dollar coffees.  
  
"Oh, just... just a business trip. Dull, really," Brendon shrugs, then sweeps a look up at Spencer through the thick sweep of his lashes. His expression changes, and he takes a half-step toward Spencer. "Hey, you've got some frosting..."  
  
Spencer blushes, and quickly raises one hand to his chin. "Fuck, where?"  
  
"Here." Brendon steps all the way into his personal space this time, reaching up and brushing his thumb slowly across Spencer's bottom lip, his eyes downcast and focused on Spencer's mouth. Spencer feels his breath catch at the heat in Brendon's eyes when he looks back up and whispers, "Got it."  
  
"Oh, good," Spencer says faintly, and then he doesn't say anything at all, because Brendon's mouth is on his. For such a tiny guy, he's surprisingly strong as he presses against Spencer, reaching up to tangle his hands in Spencer's hair, to pull him down against him, to push him back against the edge of the counter behind him. It brings him back down to earth enough to mumble "What are we doing?" against Brendon's lips, because Jesus, they're in the store, anyone who walked by could see them through the pass-thru window, but that's not enough to make him want to stop when Brendon replies:  
  
"I don't know, but I like it." Brendon starts working the buttons of Spencer's black button-down open impatiently, his mouth leaving Spencer's to trail down over newly-exposed flesh. Spencer tips his head back, moaning as Brendon pushes the fabric aside and laves his tongue over the sensitive nub of Spencer's nipple. His own hands slip down, cupping Brendon's ass in both hands and pulling him closer.  
  
"Really, really like it," Brendon mumbles against Spencer's skin, and it makes Spencer huff out a laugh that's half amusement, half shiver. He wants more, wants closer, wants more skin, so he slides his hands up Brendon's back, rucking his t-shirt up, and Brendon catches on quick. He pulls back, pulls it up and over his head, and his hair and his glasses are askew as he tosses it to the ground. He might just be the hottest thing Spencer's seen, like, ever, and he grabs Brendon by the biceps, pulling him back.   
  
They're kissing again, and his own shirt is gone, pushed off his shoulders and farther by Brendon's wandering fingers. Skin to skin, touching, and Spencer can feel the throb of his arousal pressed against Brendon, but nice as the friction is, he wants more. He growls low into Brendon's ear as he thumbs the top button of Brendon's jeans open. "Wanna touch you."  
  
"Mmm, yes," Brendon rubs up against Spencer, which doesn't really help the cause but feels really fucking good. He puts one hand on Spencer's chest and pushes him backward, landing him on top of the prep counter. "After I get done."  
  


~*~

 

  
"Wow."  
  
They're on the tile floor, and Spencer's pretty sure it would feel cold if under any other circumstances but right now, sweaty and sated with one sticky hand against the flat plane of Brendon's stomach, it feels pretty damn cozy. Which is good, because he's not entirely sure his legs still work.  
  
Brendon looks thoroughly debauched, kiss-red lips, too-tight jeans still down around his thighs, and Spencer's feeling pretty proud that he's responsible for that. Brendon grins like he knows that - hell, Spencer knows it's probably written all over his face - and he laughs. "I'm never going to be able to look at baked goods the same way again."  
  
Spencer can't hold back the laughter, and he hides his face in the curve of Brendon's neck. "It was the closest thing at hand! Not like we keep a supply of lube here or anything."  
  
"Speaking as a regular customer, I am relieved to hear that," Brendon teases. He tips his head back against Spencer's shoulder, turning his head to give Spencer an impish smile. "Besides, it just gives me new ammunition in Jon's epic game of I-Never."  
  
"How are you going to get him to say he never got a handjob with vegetable shortening?" Spencer wonders aloud, then remembers the last time Jon came in, they ended up having a semi-serious conversation about elephant testicles. "Never mind."  
  
"Ah, good, you're learning not to question my powers," Brendon says with a smug nod. "Wise."  
  
Spencer smirks and taps Brendon lightly on the back of the head. "I'd warn you to use your powers only for good-" He reaches out, traces a line down Brendon's chin, turning him to look at Spencer. He runs his thumb along the line of Brendon's lush, full lower lip, remembering the feel of that mouth around him. "-I kind of like it when you're wicked."  
  
"Mmm, maybe you need a second demonstration," Brendon twists around enough to get his lips on Spencer's, and Spencer highly approves of this. This is an excellent plan. Or it is until he feels an electric twitch and shake against his thigh, and Brendon mumbles, "Shit."  
  
"Is that a phone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" Spencer asks as Brendon moves away, rising to his knees so he can dig the phone out of his pocket.  
  
"Oh, my god, how many years have you been waiting to use that one?" Brendon manages to roll his eyes and read the text at the same time.  
  
"A few," Spencer admits cheerfully as Brendon taps out a reply. "Everything ok?"  
  
"Yeah," Brendon frowns distractedly. "Just. I hate to do this, but I've got to go. It's... a work thing."  
  
"Oh." Spencer tries not to feel disappointed. Work's work though, and Brendon had said he was only on a break. He scrunches up his face. "You aren't in trouble, are you?"  
  
"No, no, I... just... people are waiting on me," Brendon gets to his feet, and then reaches out a hand to help Spencer up. He watches while Spencer zips up his jeans, and then he leans up for another kiss, just a soft brush of contact. "I'm sorry, I'd stay if I could."  
  
"It's okay," Spencer smiles softly, because when Brendon's looking at him like that, it is. "So I don't know what your schedule's like this week... I leave on Friday to go see the twins, we're doing the whole 'Christmas in New England' thing, but I'd like to see you again. Maybe get dinner? Or just, you know, see you outside of the store?"  
  
"And maybe try this again with a bed and condoms and real lube?" Brendon teases, and Spencer laughs.  
  
"Yeah, we could definitely do that. If you're up for it."  
  
"I think I could find the time," Brendon grins, shrugging and looking down. Then he frowns, scratching at a dark, greasy spot on the front of his jeans. "I'm never going to get the Crisco out of these.

 

~*~

Spencer goes home. He goes home to his empty house and faceplants into bed, grinning stupidly in the dark when he realizes he can still smell Brendon. He feels giddy, he tries to tell himself that it's just because he got laid, but it's also because he might be thinking about what it might be like to come home to a house that isn't empty.  _Getting so, so far ahead of yourself,_  he remonstrates himself, and then rolls over and grabs his phone. He texts Travis to let him know he'll be late coming in tomorrow, and he sets his alarm for six AM instead of three before rolling over and going to sleep.  
  
His phone starts vibrating at five-thirty.  
  
Spencer rolls over with a groan, and buries his head under his pillow.  
  
It falls silent and he debates rolling over to check who it was or just going back to sleep, but before he can decide, his phone buzzes with a text. Then another. Then another. And another.  
  
He grabs it up, and flips it open to read.  
  
Travis: whats going on? call store pls  
Tosh: sum1 just asked me if the rumrs r tru? if they r, my roomie wants autographed pic!  
Ryan: r u ok?  
  
He texts Ryan back immediately, because if Ryan is awake at this time of the morning something must be drastically, drastically wrong. 'im fine why r u up?'  
  
'u r famous on the intrnt. grls txtd me to c if u were ok.'  
  
"Famous what?" Spencer scrubs at his face and tries to wake up. He staggers out of bed and down the hallway to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of coffee while he waits for his laptop to boot up. Then he logs on.  
  
And promptly wishes he hadn't.  
  
'Urie Caught with Hand in the Cookie Jar?'  
'Boy Band Gay Scandal'  
'Former 'SNAP' Frontman Finds Sugar at Sweet Spot'  
  
Spencer clicks on the last one, trying to figure out what the hell is going on and what it has to do with him and his store. The answer comes pretty quickly as the page opens and Brendon's face stares back at him.  
  
Or not his face exactly. His face looking younger, with added eyeliner, with over-gelled, over-styled hair, surrounded by four other guys just as baby-faced.   
  
Spencer's stomach sinks, because now he knows what this has to do with him, but he reads the article anyway.  
  
"Las Vegas, NV - Photos surfaced this morning of Brendon Urie, the charismatic former lead singer of popular boy-band SNAP, caught in a romantic after-hours embrace with an unidentified man at The Sweet Spot, an independently owned bakery and coffee shop in Urie's hometown of Las Vegas. The Sweet Spot is owned by three siblings, Patricia, Natasha, and Spencer Smith, and is near the studio where Urie, who left SNAP last year to pursue a solo career, is recording. SNAP, an international award-winning success based on Urie's vocal talent and the group's highly choreographed dance moves, often refuted claims that Urie and several other members of the band were in fact homosexual. Urie could not be reached for comment."  
  
The photos are a little grainy, clearly taken from a distance, but Spencer can recognize himself, can recognize Brendon. There's one of them kissing, then one shirtless, Brendon's face hidden in Spencer's neck, and then most damning, one of just Spencer, body hidden by the pass-thru window, one hand gripping the frame tightly while the other is in his lap. You can't see Brendon's head, but just about anyone with a prurient imagination will figure out where it is, Spencer thinks.  
  
Spencer kind of wants to throw up.   
  
And he's still trying to let it all sink in, sitting at his kitchen counter feeling violated, his private life laid open for the entire world to see, when his phone rings again. He checks the caller ID, and it's the store, so he picks up.  
  
"Yo, Spencer," Travis's voice comes down the line, tinny and far away and way, way more serious than Spencer is used to. "Shit's crazy down here, man. There's a crowd of people standing outside with cameras, and I think I saw a news crew or two. People keep calling me asking for comments on 'the situation.' Which from what I can gather involves you butt nekkid on my prep counter."  
  
"Fuck." Spencer tries to think. He needs more caffeine. He needs a shower. He needs there not to be pictures of him getting a blowjob on the internet. "Fuck!"  
  
"What d'you want me to do? Should I open up? 'Cuz I don't think they're here for the muffins, dude. Oh, and some guy called and said he was from the health department and he wants to talk to you."  
  
"He- What- But I disinfected everything! I threw out the-" Spencer stops mid-sentence, horrified.   
  
Travis starts laughing, hard and loud in Spencer's ear. "The what? Oh, you are finishing that sentence. I have to explain to everyone I know that I work at the Sex Bakery now, I get the deets, man."  
  
"The, uh. Crisco?" Spencer knows he's at least eighteen shades of red. He rests his forehead on the cool countertop and sort of wishes he could die. Or time travel. Time travel would be awesome right about now, he could go back and tell himself not to fool around with Brendon. Even if the thought of missing out on last night makes him kind of sad.  
  
Travis actually makes a hooting sound. Spencer doesn't think he's ever heard anyone actually hoot before in his life, but this is apparently the level of hilarity he's living at now, Travis is hooting. He finally gets it together enough to wheeze, "Classy."  
  
"Oh, fuck you." Spencer can't help but laugh a little. It's either that or cry.  
  
"Keep your food kink away from me, dude," Travis teases. "And note how I'm refraining from making fisting jokes."  
  
Spencer groans against the countertop. "Saying you're refraining is not the same as  _actually_  refraining, you do get that, right?"  
  
"Close enough," Travis replies cheerfully. "Your kinky secrets are safe with me."  
  


~*~

  
The store opens on time, with Travis serving up donuts and lies to reporters. Spencer knows this, because when he gets out of the shower he has texts about the best of the best - 'i told them it was me-flash lights up the fro, u no?' and 'if any1 asks, store is haunted by sex addict ghosts' are Spencer's favorites. He also has five texts from Brendon:  
  
06:12: ppl r wrong on the internet recommend 2 stay away  
06:17: k worse than i thought. they have ur name from the store. prob paps there, recc stay home.  
06:20: pls dont b mad, im sorry  
06:25: i can xplain. will call asap. sorry sorry sorry. :'( Jon says pls dont talk to press.  
06:30: pls dont hate me. sorry.  
  
Spencer sighs, running one hand through wet hair. There's also a missed call, and as he presses the button to call Brendon back, it crosses his mind that he never thought when they were exchanging numbers last night that these would be the circumstances under which he'd be calling Brendon for the first time.   
  
Brendon picks up almost immediately. "Spencer?"  
  
"Hey," Spencer exhales softly. Now that he's called, he isn't sure what he's supposed to say. "So how's your day going?"  
  
"Oh, Jesus," Brendon laughs sharply, almost bitterly. "I've had better. I am so, so sorry about this, Spencer. Really, I am. I should have told you, I was  _going_  to tell you, I just..."  
  
"I feel like I should have known. Hell, my sisters were into SNAP, I think Tosh had a poster," Spencer sits down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard.   
  
"I liked that you didn't know," Brendon admits softly, and Spencer closes his eyes. "I... I could be myself with you. I know it sounds stupid and egotistical, but it was nice to just be me, to know that you didn't have any preconceived notions of who I was. I know I should have told you, but I just hated to give that up."  
  
There's silence over the line for a moment, and then Brendon adds, "Obviously, I should have taken into account the press stepping in, and realized I should've told you and given you the choice about spreading your personal life in the fucking tabloids. I am so sorry, and I totally get it if you hate me and you never want to talk to me again."  
  
"I don't hate you, Brendon," Spencer frowns, picking at the fabric of his bedspread. "I... it's just a lot to take in. Last night was awesome. I just didn't expect to wake up to the whole world knowing about it, or to have photographers camped out at the store-"  
  
"Oh, god, the store!" Brendon groans. "I didn't even think- I'm ruining your whole life, aren't I?"  
  
"Not ruining, just-"  
  
"Oh, shit, hang on a second, Spencer," Brendon interrupts, and Spencer can hear him having a muffled conversation with someone. He thinks they're almost arguing, but he can't make out what they're saying. Brendon sounds annoyed and frustrated and a little embarrassed when he comes back on the line. "Sorry, that was Jon. You know... um, well, you probably don't, but he's sort of my manager? And he wants to know if you've talked to anyone?"  
  
"What, like the press?" Spencer's more surprised than he probably should be, but then again it never occurred to him to give interviews or something. He tries not to be pissed off, that Brendon would think he might, that Jon would think so. "No. I talked to Travis, and my best friend. I need to call the girls, they've texted me so they know about it."  
  
"Could you- maybe you could come here first? Jon wants to," Brendon sighs, and Spencer can practically see him rubbing at his face over the phone. "Fuck. Jon wants to talk strategy, to figure out how to spin this, and he wants you involved."  
  
Spencer really doesn't like the sound of that, even if he can appreciate the practicality of it. "What do you want?"  
  
"I want," Brendon huffs out a short laugh. "I want to go back to last night, when things were still awesome and mostly uncomplicated."  
  
"Me too," Spencer admits.  
  
"Failing that... I'd like to see you again," Brendon says earnestly. "Not just strategically. I mean, not just for this. I wanted to see you again before, it's just that we need to deal with this whole mess first-"  
  
"Brendon," Spencer interrupts quietly. "I get it. Where are you?"  
  
It takes Spencer a while to make it to Brendon's suite at the Palms. First, he has to leave his house. That's a trickier proposition than it sounds, because when he peers out the blinds in the living room, he sees five or six reporters milling around his driveway. One of them seems to be going through his neighbors' trash. Spencer spares a moment to hope there are horrible things in there, like used condoms and dirty diapers. The Andersons have four kids under the age of ten, so it seems like one or the other or both ought to be an option.   
  
He puts on a hat and sunglasses and a heavier coat than a sixty-five degree sunny December day in Las Vegas calls for, and heads for the garage. Where he decides, fuck it, and loses it all, because damned if he's going to act like he did anything wrong.   
  
So now there will probably be seventy billion new pictures of him looking pissed off while backing down his driveway on the internet. Awesome. He takes the most circuitous route to the office of the Board of Health, trying to remember all the tricks he's seen in movies to lose a tail. He doesn't even know if he has one, but it seems like a logical thing to do. Unfortunately, there seem to be approximately one billion nondescript white cars in Vegas, and he's really not sure he can tell them apart.   
  
He leaves there an hour later, with the results of the morning's surprise inspection - fucking 97, thank you very much, because he'd cleaned  _everything_  after Brendon left last night - and a slap on the wrist to remind him that people weren't so much supposed to be naked, even allegedly naked, in places where food gets made. The guy had actually been kind of decent about it, had subscribed to the 'what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas' theory and hadn't tried to force some sort of confession, or even mentioned Brendon's name.   
  
That alone helps him hold on to his temper through another labyrinthine drive, through heavy traffic on the Strip, and a ten minute wait for Zack to meet him in the casino to escort him past security. It's touch and go though, and his teeth are on edge by the time he walks through the door to be faced with Jon - no, scratch that,  _Brendon's manager_  - telling him to go back into the closet and all but barricade the door.  
  
"I think you should deny everything. The pictures are blurry, it's a case of mistaken identity." Jon lays out, not even pausing to acknowledge Spencer's arrival. "You just say, sure, you've been to the bakery before, because I'm sure there's proof out there somewhere, but you don't have any idea who those people are in the photos. It's not you. And then we'll set you up with someone, maybe one of those girls from  _High School Musical_ -"  
  
"Ugh, no way!" Brendon grimaces, and then smiles at Spencer, murmurs hello softly before returning his attention to Jon. "They're all like, twelve, and the last one couldn't even carry a conversation. I asked her if she liked Queen, and she said she thought that Helen Mirren was overrated. Do you have any idea how many levels of wrong that is?"  
  
"Epic levels," Spencer puts in, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning against a wall. He's not sure where he fits in with this drama yet. "Helen Mirren's awesome."  
  
"Exactly!" Brendon nods.  
  
"Okay, fine, then we find somebody else." Jon runs his hands through his hair in frustration. Spencer's never seen him riled before, would have sworn he was the most easygoing guy on the planet and probably half-stoned most of the time, but apparently not. "We find you a girl, and you say it wasn't you, and Spencer says it wasn't him, and then it wasn't anybody. Everyone's straight and then we go sell lots of records to lots of girls who want to be Mrs. Brendon Urie one day."  
  
"One flaw with that plan," Spencer interjects, crossing his arms. "I'm not straight. Okay, well two flaws, because Brendon isn't either, but let's focus on the first one. You probably have til the end of the day, if that, before someone somewhere puts up a picture of me that disproves that pretty decisively. I'm on the board of the Las Vegas Alliance of Gay and Lesbian Small-Business Owners, my sisters have been vocal members of PFLAG since junior high, and I've helped organize the Gay Pride celebration here for the last five years."  
  
He pauses for a second, then looks Jon in the eye and says with a bitter twist of a smile. "I'm here, I'm queer, get used to it."  
  
"Look, it's not like I  _want_  to shove you back in the closet, either of you-" Jon meets Spencer's stare, and Spencer doesn't so much as blink. He turns back to Brendon, speaking earnestly. "But this is a delicate time for your career, Brendon, and I don't want to see you throw it away. You've worked so hard on this album, and I wouldn't being doing my job if I didn't do everything in my power to keep it all from getting fucked up."  
  
Brendon sighs, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. "Jon, I know that. But the whole thing with SNAP, and getting away from that, the point was to be myself. If I'm not doing that, then how honest can my music be?"   
  
Jon says it softly, so softly that Spencer has to strain to hear it. "Will it matter how honest your music is, if no one gets to hear it?"  
  
Spencer's stomach twists, because this is a big deal. He knows what music means to Brendon, from conversations had over countless cups of coffee when he thought Brendon was just an enthusiast like himself. He wants to reach out, reach over and put his hand on Brendon's shoulder, because he looks like he wants to curl in on himself. But before he can, Brendon straightens his spine, gathers himself together visibly. "I can-"  
  
"Brendon?" A head pokes around the corner, a short guy in a golfer hat and a Buzzcocks t-shirt. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need your input - I think the levels are fucked on that last track."  
  
"Shit." Brendon frowns, then looks apologetically at Spencer. "I'm sorry, I have to... I'll be right back."  
  
Spencer shoos him off and he can hear Brendon and the other guy already deep in conversation before the door shuts. And now it's just him and Jon in the room, left staring at each other with a metric fuckton of awkward in between them.  
  
"Look, I'm not trying to be an asshole about this, I swear." Jon scratches at the back of his neck, looking frustrated. "It's just. He's already so far out on this limb, and everyone in the music industry is watching, waiting for him to fail. This is his dream, it's all he's ever wanted."   
  
Spencer defends, "I'm not trying to ruin things for him. I didn't even know-"  
  
"I know, I know. He told me. And look, I get that this can't be easy for you, suddenly having everyone all up in your business." The look Jon gives him is equal parts sympathy and pleading. "It's just. One quick denial, even just you saying it wasn't him... this whole thing could disappear."  
  
Spencer thinks about it for a moment, and Jon senses an advantage and keeps pressing. "Look, I know you like him. And he likes you. But have you really thought about what this is going to mean? For you, for your family, your friends. The press, they're like bloodhounds on a scent, they won't give up until they've found out every slightly scandalous thing about your life and put it in print."  
  
Spencer frowns, thinking about the reporters on his drive this morning. It's only a matter of time before they track down the twins, and he thinks about what it would be like for them, trying to focus on school while being bothered by paparazzi. And it'd only be a matter of time before their parents' accident would be brought up, everyone loves a good tragic story. "I don't know, it's his choice..."  
  
"It's your choice too," Jon argues. "You need to think about what this is going to do to  _your_  life too. You didn't ask for this, you didn't ask to be famous."  
  


~*~

  
It's done. For better or worse, it's done.  
  
Spencer's lying on a bed in a dorm room in Providence, Rhode Island, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. Trish and Tosh are in the bathroom, getting ready to go out to dinner to celebrate his arrival. They're full of bubbly holiday plans for their first 'Real Christmas with Snow and Everything,' and Spencer's working hard not to ruin it with the massive amount of guilt he's feeling.  
  
In retrospect, it was so easy to feed the lie to the reporter that Jon had put him in touch with; he told them that it wasn't Brendon, and it was like that was what they  _wanted_  to hear so everyone believed it. That it was some random guy Spencer had met in a bar, and no, he doesn't know his name. So now the whole world, or at least the portion of it that watches Entertainment Tonight, probably thinks he's a complete whore. He sighs, rolling over onto his side, curling up.  
  
He's lied, and he did it without telling Brendon what he planned to do. He's protected his family, but it means that he has to let go of the only person he's met in years that he really felt connected to. Life sucks hardcore. And so does the sorry excuse for a mattress that he's sleeping on for the next week.  
  
His phone buzzes, and he checks the display. It's Brendon. Again. He's called every day since Spencer made his statement to the press, and Spencer knows that he should grow some balls and talk to him. It's just... Spencer doesn't know whether to expect Brendon to yell at him, to hate him, or to forgive him, to absolve him - and he's not sure which would be worse. So he remains ball-less and lets the call go to voicemail.  
  
He's stopped listening to the messages after the first one, got as far as hearing Brendon's voice choked with hurt, hearing 'you didn't have to-' before he hit the delete button. He keeps reminding himself that he did the best thing, not just for him but for Brendon too. It's just the little niggling voice that keeps telling him that doing the right thing never makes you feel this awful that has him sighing as he deletes the new message without listening to it.  
  
"So we're thinking ice skating on the square tomorrow afternoon, what do you think?" Tosh bops in to the room, towel drying her hair but dressed.   
  
She's wearing the most hideous Christmas sweater Spencer's ever seen - it's a giant Rudolph, and Spencer is very, very afraid that the nose may light up at any moment. "Stylish."  
  
"I know!" She grins at him mischievously, and she looks so much like their mom that it makes Spencer's heart clench. "Ryan sent us both one, aren't they so perfectly horrific?"  
  
"Absolutely awful," Spencer agrees, rolling onto his back and tucking his hands behind his head. There's no telling whether Ryan meant them ironically or not; his fashion sense somehow manages to routinely rotate between hipster and grandpa. "Try not to set yourself on fire, I'm gonna bet that's not flame retardant."  
  
Tosh chuckles. "Oh, god, death by Christmas sweater! I bet I'd make the news."  
  
She tosses the towel over the back of the chair, and looks at him. She frowns and shoves at one of his knees - "Shove over." - and settles herself down next to him. It's a twin bed, and Spencer's six feet tall. He bumps her with his shoulder and teases. "This is cozy."  
  
"Yup." She says smugly, bumping him back. They lie there for a minute, and Spencer tries to put everything else out of his mind and just be happy to be with his sisters. It's been a long fall without them. He sort of succeeds until Tosh looks over at him, blue eyes serious as she twirls one wet strand of long, dark hair between her fingers. "You're sad, Spencer."  
  
He sighs, and shuts his eyes. "Yeah, a little bit."  
  
"What happened? We saw the story, and then you saying it wasn't him." She rolls on her side to look him in the eye. "But Spencer, it looked like him, and you've been talking for ages about your friend Brendon..."  
  
"Yeah, I know, I... " Spencer swallows hard. "It was him. I didn't have any idea who he was, he was just Brendon, you know? It was him and me, and I lied to the press and said it wasn't."  
  
"Why? Did he ask you to-"  
  
"No," Spencer interrupts emphatically. "No, he never asked me to lie for him. I just... it was easier. Better. Better for everyone."  
  
"How is it better if it makes you sad, Spence? How are you guys going to be together if he's not out?" She frowns, wrinkling her nose. "Or was this just another one of your hook-ups?"  
  
"We're not together. I mean, we were. I think. Or maybe just starting to be, but we can't. It'd ruin his career," Spencer shrugs. And then he frowns, looking over at his sister. "And what do you mean,  _another_  hook-up? I don't have hook-ups!"  
  
There's a laugh from the doorway at that. "Oh, bullshit."  
  
Trish crosses the room and hops on to the bed with them, sitting Indian-style at their feet. Her sweater has a Santa that looks more psychotic than jolly; it creeps Spencer out more than just a little. "We know all about your little nights out at the club. We have since we were thirteen."  
  
"You have not!" Spencer argues. They can't have, he was totally stealthy about it. He is a master of stealth. "I am a master of stealth."  
  
"Oh, bitch, please," Trish pshaws him, and Tosh giggles. He kicks at Trish and she smacks his foot. "It's not like it took a rocket scientist to figure out the pattern - you'd get pissier and pissier, and then Mrs. Roberts would come over and babysit, and then the next day, voila! Relaxed and happy Spencer makes an appearance."  
  
The girls exchange an amused look, and then sing-song simultaneously. "Spennncer got laaid!"  
  
Spencer rolls his eyes, and they laugh harder at him. "Freaks. Knock off the twin mind-meld thing, you know that freaks me out."  
  
"Yes, Spencer," They chorus angelically, and Spencer groans.  
  
"Okay, seriously, though." Trish brings them back to the subject at hand. "He broke it off because of his career? That's lame."  
  
"No, he- It was my decision," Spencer says, and both girls frown at him. "Look, he's working on a new album, and his manager said this could ruin it for him. And you girls didn't need reporters hounding you, and the store could suffer. It just. It makes sense."  
  
"It makes sense?" Trish looks at him like he's lost his mind. "How the hell does that make sense? You like each other but you won't even try because it would be inconvenient? That's stupid."  
  
"It is not! I-"  
  
"I get that you're trying to be responsible here," Tosh interrupts, and Spencer could hug her. She's the most like him, dependable and level-headed. "But Trish is right - that's stupid."  
  
"What?" Spencer takes it all back; the Ivy League has obviously ruined his sister. He wants a refund of the stupidly expensive tuition.  
  
"It's stupid, because you're not doing what you obviously want to do," she continues like he hadn't even spoken. "You're thinking of all the grown up stuff, because you're so used to having to be the grown up. But you like him. You sounded so happy when you talked about him on the phone. You never mention  _anyone_ , but you mentioned him. And we were so excited, because you deserve someone who makes you happy, and Ryan said you were really into him. So I get that you're trying to put us, and the store, and even Brendon first, but it should be your turn now. You gave up a lot to take care of us, to keep our family together. But you should have a chance to put yourself first."  
  
"You deserve that." Trish adds.  
  
Spencer looks away, staring at a crack in the wall as he tries to blink away the tears. He hates how thick his voice sounds when he speaks. "It's too late now anyway. I already made my decision."  
  
"But if it was the wrong decision, you should unmake it," Trish rests her hands in fists on his shins and gives him an earnest look. "You told me that when I was twelve, and I let everyone spread that rumor about Cindy Myers when I knew it wasn't true and then felt guilty because I was supposed to be her friend. You said that if someone cares about you, and you tell them you know you were wrong, then they'll forgive you for making a mistake. So just tell him that you made a mistake."  
  
Spencer can't help but laugh, a watery little chuckle at that. "I don't know, Trish, I think this might be more serious than Cindy having cooties or whatever-"  
  
"I know, but the principle still stands," Trish grins. "Don't screw with my homespun analogy technique, it's totally getting me an A in my ethics class."  
  
" _That's_  what's getting you an A? And here I thought it was-" Tosh is cut off by a pillow with the force of a hundred and twenty-five pounds of sister behind it, so the tail end of that comes out as "Mmrph."  
  
"Tosh and two of her friends are renting an apartment in Paris for the summer," Trish calmly rats out her sister, who smacks at her arm until she lets the pillow up.  
  
"Traitor," Tosh glares at her sister, flipping drying hair out of her face. Spencer just gives her his patented eyebrow raise, the one he maybe practiced in the mirror when he was twenty one and trying to intimidate them into seeing him as an authority figure and not the brother who used to sneak them candy before dinner. "I was  _going_  to tell you, Spence. It's like it's for school. I need to, if I'm going to keep up with the other French majors, half of them summer on the freaking Riviera. And anyway,  _she's_  dating a teacher's assistant. In one of her classes. Who's twenty-three and lives off-campus."  
  
Trish sticks her tongue out at Tosh, who returns the gesture, and Spencer tries to decide who he should lecture first. And then he looks around the room that Trish shares with her roommate Sarah, that's across the hall from Tosh and Jill's room, and he thinks about how they've been living here, on their own, for months. It's just the start of all the decisions they have to make without him, and Spencer remembers that first year on his own and how his parents didn't stop him when he and Ryan decided to spend a month on the road with their friend's band.  _This is letting go,_  he thinks, and it's hard, and it sucks, but he keeps his voice light when he says, "Okay."  
  
"Okay?" The twins echo, mirror images of confusion.  
  
Trish recovers first, going on the defensive. "We're not breaking any rules - the professor knows, Mark doesn't grade my work. I switched to a different section. And it's just an elective, it's not in my major so after this semester's over there's no conflict."  
  
"Okay," Spencer repeats. "Be careful, don't risk your academic reputation for it, but okay. And you-" He points at Tosh. "I expect to hear from you every three days, and by phone at least once a week. I am not afraid to call in the gendarmes if I think you've gone missing."  
  
Tosh nods emphatically, and they both stare at him with no small amount of incredulity. He grins back at them. "What?"  
  
Tosh just holds one hand up to his forehead, and Trish demands, "Who are you and what have you done with our Spencer?"  
  
"I think the boylove broke his brain," Tosh says with mock sadness.   
  
Spencer tickles her til she falls off the bed.   
  


~*~

  
Spencer loosens his tie and takes another sip of his martini. Which he was stupid enough to order 'shaken not stirred' because he's a giant dork and James Bond is awesome and, as he'd taken great pleasure in announcing to Ryan, he was not yet thirty and could still do stupid shit.  
  
It tastes like ass.  
  
He grimaces and sets it back down, looking around the martini bar where they're ringing in the new year. It's a nice place, swanky without being stuffy, busy without being packed, yet another one of Ryan's finds. He's always had a knack for finding the next big thing, even when they were kids. This time next year, the place will be overrun, but now it's just cozy, intimate, full of the buzz of conversation, the clink of glassware, and the soft music of a jazz trio playing on a small stage.  
  
Keltie's whispering something into Ryan's ear, and he nods before he leans over and gives her a quick kiss. Spencer doesn't usually feel like a third wheel when he's out with them, but tonight more than a small part of him is wishing he'd just stayed home and thrown himself a pity party for one.   
  
He swallows back a sigh and forces himself to smile at them, to take another swallow of ass-tini, to pretend like he's having fun. "The band's good."  
  
Ryan cocks his head, listening to them for a moment. "Yeah, not bad. You having a good time?"  
  
"Yeah, totally," Spencer fibs.  
  
Ryan gives him a considered look. "Unh-huh. Liar."  
  
Well, yeah. Spencer shrugs. "Why'd you even ask then? I'm having as much fun as I was possibly going to have tonight, so that's. That's something."  
  
Keltie gives him a sympathetic look and leans across Ryan to ask, "Have you even talked to him?"  
  
Spencer looks away, studying the rim of his glass intently. "I was going to, but the holidays... and then he stopped calling, so..."  
  
"So you thought you'd wait to see if Santa brought you a pair for Christmas?" Ryan rolls his eyes. "You need to  _call him_ ."  
  
"If that's what you want," Keltie interjects. "If you still want to be with him. Do you still want that? Because if you don't, we could go home now. If you're miserable, I mean."  
  
Ryan raises one eyebrow at her, but he nods. "Totally. We can ring the New Year in making out in the back of your car while you drive us home, Spence. It'll be just like high school all over again."  
  
"Asshole. That was one time, stop making me sound like a wallflower." Spencer smacks him. Extra hard. Ryan rubs his arm and gives him a pained look. "I'm not miserable, guys, we can stay. And I'm going to call him, I just have to figure out the right thing to say."  
  
"The right thing to say is fucking HELLO," Ryan argues, and Keltie nods vigorously. "You need to talk to him, and just clear the air."  
  
"I don't know if there's even any point to it," Spencer shrugs. "I mean, he's… It's not like I'm even in his league. He's adored by millions. On a good day, I'm adored by my sisters, and by a small circle of caffeine addicts."  
  
"And us!" Keltie adds cheerfully. "And more importantly, by  _Brendon_ . You have to give it another shot - you know you'll hate yourself if you don't. You care about him, you said yourself you had a connection, do you know how rare that is?"  
  
"First of all, I said that  _to Ryan_ , who is a sorry excuse for a best friend and can't keep his mouth shut-" Spencer glares in Ryan's direction. Ryan doesn't look the least bit contrite. "And even if we did, that doesn't mean he still feels that way. Or even wants anything to do with me now."  
  
"Which is why you need to talk to him, and find out," Ryan points out.  
  
"No one said this was going to be easy," Keltie says. "Sometimes you have to just put yourself out there and take a risk to be with the person you love."  
  
Love. Spencer frowns into his drink. No one said anything about love. He's saved from answering though, by the club's manager, who steps up to the microphone as the band stops playing.  
  
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Fever Lounge." He smiles as the crowd applauds politely. "We're so glad you chose to ring in the New Year with us, and as a thanks, we have a special surprise for you all. Some of you may recognize our mystery guest this evening from your misspent youths, and those of you that don't will know he is soon enough. He's graciously agreed to play a few tunes of his soon-to-be released album, and once you hear them, you'll know what I'm talking about."  
  
He steps away from the stage, and it begins to rotate, slowly revealing a white baby Grand piano.  
  
And Brendon.  
  
There's a small gasp of recognition from the audience, but Brendon just starts playing like he doesn't notice. He starts playing, and Spencer swears he didn't know it was possible for his heart to hurt this much. It's a physical pain as he watches the spotlight shine highlights into Brendon's dark hair, the steel line of his back as his fingers trail across ivory keys. The stage rotates his face toward the crowd just as he starts singing, and Spencer's breath catches in his chest. Yeah, okay. Love.  
  
Brendon's voice is strong, vibrant, as it carries through the room. There's no way SNAP sounded like this, Spencer thinks, because he would have  _noticed_ . He finishes the song, and the room bursts into applause.  
  
Brendon plays two more songs, pausing between them to joke with the crowd, and he's warm and entertaining, and he's got them all eating out of his hand. The crowd is paying rapt attention as the notes of the second song fade away, and Brendon looks up, the edges of his smile turning just a little nervous.  
  
"So we've got time for just one more song before it's time for the countdown to begin. This little number is my favorite track off my new album. In a lot of ways, it was the hardest to write," he smiles ruefully. "It had a first verse and a chorus for the longest time, and just wouldn't go anywhere from there for the longest time. And then I met someone, someone really special. But I let it get fucked up and…" He trails off, then smiles brilliantly in the direction of the crowd. "I'm rambling. So anyway, this song is about second verses to me, and hopefully about second chances too."  
  
The song starts slow, Brendon singing in a clear voice, and Spencer's not sure he even understands the words, though they are beautiful. Then the chorus comes, and suddenly he gets it - it's a song about being in love, not falling, about hoping for the best even when you fear for the worst.  
  
"I missed your skin when you were east, you clicked your heels and wished for me, " Brendon sings, and Spencer knows Brendon can't see him through the spotlights but fuck if it doesn't feel like Brendon's eyes are locked with his. He can't look away. He can't believe this is his life. "I know the world's a broken bone, but melt your headaches, call it home."  
  
  
And then it's over all too fast, and there's applause and cheering and a countdown to a new year with celebrating all around him, and Spencer can't quite take it all in. He sits there dumbfounded for a long moment while people around them throw confetti and blow paper horns and mack on complete strangers. It takes him a while, but finally he looks up, looks at Ryan and Keltie who are watching him with big eyes, leaning their chins against their hands in mirror images, like he's a fascinating experiment they're conducting or a watched pot about to boil or something. "You knew?"  
  
"Yes," They both say, and Ryan half-shrugs one shoulder and adds, "He got in touch with Trish online. She was afraid you'd keep punking out-"  
  
"I was going to call him!" Spencer defends. He  _was_ . Probably.   
  
"So," Ryan continues as if Spencer never said a word. "We thought maybe you could use a push."  
  
"A push?" Spencer repeats.   
  
"Go talk to him," Keltie suggests gently. "He's waiting for you."  
  
"I still don't know what to say," Spencer says, and he smacks Ryan on the arm when he rolls his eyes. " _After_  hello, asshole."  
  
Keltie smiles, and reaches across the table to squeeze Spencer's hand. "Tell him you missed him too."  
  


~*~

  
Spencer's knees are a little weak as he nears the door that says very clearly on it 'Authorized Personnel Only.' Does someone maybe sort of writing a song about you make you authorized? Spencer takes a deep breath, and starts to push the door open when someone taps him on the shoulder. Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuck, Spencer thinks and turns around, trying to think up some bullshit story that's going to get him behind that door.  
  
Jon's standing there, looking worried. "Spence, hi."  
  
"I need to talk to him," Spencer says, and he draws up to his full height, doing his best to look intimidating. "I'm  _going_  to talk to him."  
  
"Hey, I'm not trying to-" Jon waves his hands around, shaking his head. "I just wanted to say sorry."  
  
"Sorry?" Spencer's got to stop repeating what other people say tonight, it's making him sound as stupid as he feels, but this is not that moment, apparently.  
  
"I shouldn't have interfered," Jon admits sheepishly. "I shouldn't have talked you into... I didn't mean for you to go away, I just wanted to protect him, you know?"  
  
Spencer gets that, so he nods. Honesty more than grace makes him admit grudgingly, "You didn't  _make_  me do anything, I-"  
  
"I suggested it," Jon counters, and he looks sad for a minute. "I forget that he can take care of himself, sometimes. He was kind enough to remind me."  
  
"Is he mad at you?" Spencer asks, when what he really means is,  _is he mad at me?_  
  
"He was," Jon admits, and Spencer thinks he's answering both questions. "But he got over it. He forgives, it's what Brendon does. After the yelling. And making me sing Disney tunes with him."  
  
Spencer can't hide the laugh, and Jon grins. "Oh, yeah, laugh it up - see how you feel after the third rendition of  _Kiss The Girl_ ! And he never lets me do Sebastian, I'm always the background fish, it's not fair."  
  
"That's because your Caribbean accent is crap."  
  
Spencer stiffens slightly. Brendon.   
  
He turns around, and there Brendon is, leaning around the door, half-hidden from the room at large. He's still wearing the tuxedo shirt he'd performed in, but it's untucked and his sleeves are rolled up. He looks delectably disheveled. He's got this tentative smile, but there's a pinched, worried look in his eyes that Spencer wishes wasn't there. Spencer shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to feel somehow less awkward. "Um. Hi."  
  
"Hey," Brendon says softly, and his smile brightens just a fraction. He leans back, swinging the door farther open. "Want to hang out backstage? I've got connections…"  
  
"Sure," Spencer nods and starts toward him. He half-turns back to Jon and says, "See you around."  
  
Jon gives him a smile that's easy and relieved. "Hope so."  
  
Brendon leads the way through the unpainted, utilitarian back-of-the-house, dodging waitstaff with a practiced ease. Once, a girl about the twins' age stops him and shyly asks for an autograph, and Brendon poses for a photo with her on her cell phone. She flashes them both a pleased smile as she heads back toward the lounge.  
  
"This is me," Brendon says a minute later, pushing open a door with a piece of paper that says "Dressing Room" taped to it. It's small but they've made an effort - a nice counter with makeup lighting down either side, a loveseat crammed against one wall. There's a guitar leaning against it, and Spencer wonders if it's Brendon's. There are posters in frames on the walls, and a fruit basket on a low table by the couch.  
  
"So…"  
  
"So," Spencer echoes, and now that he's here, he has no idea what he's supposed to say.  
  
"So your sister says that you're a self-sacrificing idiot, and that I should never let you make decisions," Brendon leans back against the counter-top, practically sitting on his hands as he looks at Spencer with big eyes. "She says you can't be trusted to actually put what you want first."  
  
"I'm out of practice at it," Spencer admits. He stays where he is, just inside the door, a few feet away from Brendon.   
  
Brendon nods, like he's taking that in, and then he looks up at Spencer through thick lashes. "You didn't answer my calls."  
  
"I know, I'm sorry, I…" Spencer runs one hand through his hair, trying to find a way to explain. "I thought… I didn't want to know if you hated me. I just… I'm sorry."  
  
"Why would I hate you?" Brendon frowns, his brow wrinkling. "I was a little pissed, yeah, but not… we could have talked about it. We  _should_  have talked about it."  
  
"I know, it just seemed… I didn't want to ruin things for you, and I was trying to protect the girls' privacy, which trust me, they've set me straight on-" Spencer rolls his eyes, and Brendon grins. "Very clearly and using words I should never have taught them when they were little."  
  
Brendon laughs, and his shoulders loosen a little. "Good for them. And I get why you wouldn't want to expose them to that, I know it's a strange thing to have the world interested in the intimate details of your life, and I wish I could keep that part of my life away from all the people I care about. But I can't control that."  
  
Spencer shrugs, "I know. I should have… I should have given them more credit, that they could handle it if people started asking them questions about the accident, or brought up the settlement from the airline… I just wanted to spare them the pain. And I wanted you to get your record made."  
  
"I wish you'd just told me that," Brendon moves toward him a step. "I could have told you that Jon was just worrying, because that's what managers do, what friends do. I could have told you that if people don't want to listen to my music because I'm gay, then those aren't people that I want listening to my music anyway."  
  
He takes another step closer, and into Spencer's personal space. Spencer can't stop the way he leans toward Brendon any more than he could stop breathing, and he can feel the heat of Brendon's body from inches away. He has to force himself to pay attention to the words Brendon's saying.   
  
"I did an interview on Monday with Out magazine, it's going to be an internet exclusive and it should be online any day now. I was always going to come out eventually. This just moved up the timetable by a few months. It was one of the reasons I left SNAP - I spent most of my twenties having to hide who I am, and I don't want to do that anymore, whether it's with you or with someone else," Brendon says earnestly, and then pauses before grinning mischievously up at Spencer. "Just to be clear though, I want it to be with you."  
  
"You... you really still want to?" Spencer has to ask, but he reaches out and rests his hands on Brendon's hips. Brendon steps even closer, pressing his body flush against Spencer's, and the breath stutters out of Spencer's lungs.  
  
"I really still do," Brendon's eyes flare wide, solemn, even though he's still got the tail end of the smile on his face. "I know it won't be easy, I know my life is a little weird to most people, but... I think we could have something really special, if we just let ourselves try, Spencer."  
  
"I think so too," Spencer says softly, and he flexes his hands, thumbs pressed against Brendon's hipbones as his fingers fan out across Brendon's backside. Oh, God, he thinks, they're actually going to do this. He's dating someone; no, not someone, but  _Brendon_ . He grins wide and bright, knowing that he probably looks like a big goofball in love, but so the fuck what? He totally is. "Let's do this."  
  


~*~

  
"Oh, Jesus, we have  _got_  to try doing this in an actualfax bedroom sometime," Spencer groans, kneeling up from his spot between Brendon's legs to cradle the elbow he just rammed into the console between the front seats of his car. Either he's grown or cars have shrunk since the last time he tried this.   
  
"Bedrooms are far, far away," Brendon pants, rolling his hips up against Spencer's. It would be sexier if he didn't have his trousers and a pair of neon yellow briefs hanging off one leg. Oh, fuck it, who is Spencer kidding? It's still pretty fucking sexy. "Bedrooms are for pansies."  
  
He sits up, capturing Spencer's lips with his own, burying one hand in Spencer's hair. Suddenly Spencer's elbow doesn't hurt quite so much, and he reaches between them to wrap one hand around Brendon's dick. Brendon gasps, catching Spencer's lower lip between his teeth, and hastens to return the favor.  
  
"Oh, sweet- fuck, Brendon," Spencer licks his way inside Brendon's mouth until they both have to come up for air. "You're so... I want to fuck you, want-"  
  
And then he freezes, and he'd swear the hair on the back of his neck stands up.   
  
Brendon stops too, and he looks up at Spencer with big eyes. "Did you hear something?"  
  
"I think so, I-"  
  
Brendon reaches up and wipes the fog off the window just in time to hear another snick-click of a camera and a flash going off less than twenty yards away.  
  
"Shit." Spencer closes his eyes, and tries not to panic. They're just sitting here half-clothed, okay, less than half-clothed, in a parking lot in a car with fogged up windows that twenty seconds ago might have possibly been rocking. Pictures can't capture rocking, can they? "Shit, I-"  
  
"Fuck it," Brendon shrugs.  
  
"What?" Spencer looks at him incredulously, because this is so totally the start of round two, how does Brendon not see this? He tries to convey this, but all he can manage is a higher-pitched, "What?"  
  
"We aren't doing anything wrong," Brendon says, and then grins. "Well, okay, maybe a little public indecency, but hey. What they can't see can't hurt us. I don't care who sees me kissing you. Do you care who sees you kissing me?"  
  
Spencer thinks about it for half a second; no, he really doesn't. He'd kiss Brendon in front of the whole world. He shakes his head. "No. No, I don't care."  
  
"Sooo," Brendon turns to the window and wipes it clear again. He smiles and waves as the flash flares again. "If you don't care, and I don't care..."  
  
He pulls Spencer back to him, and whispers against his lips, "Then why aren't we kissing?"  
  
Spencer would answer, but he's a little busy.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
